


Silk, velvet and leather

by ClaireMorgan



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: 19th century AU, Blindfolds, Choking, Cunnilingus, Drunk Sex, F/F, Impact Play, Light BDSM, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Demons, Shameless Smut, Strap-Ons, some angst too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27562054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireMorgan/pseuds/ClaireMorgan
Summary: "Zelda leans over the bar, readjusting her cream-coloured silk collar, and smoothing a rebel curl of her wildfire hair. She can feel the stares on her, as always, but decides to ignore them. She doesn’t even let her eyes roam around the smoke-filled room, which seems pretty crowded tonight. She isn’t here for company, anyway; or not that kind."In 1852 London, a jaded Zelda Spellman indulges herself in more than one pleasure. The most extravagant one? Sessions of torture at the hands of sex demons, in a velvet cloaked cage; a place where every fantasy is possible. Yet, the ginger witch is never satisfied. One night, an unfamiliar demoness seems to have been conjured for her, and her games are more delicious than anything Zelda has ever tasted. Who can she possibly be?
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Silk, velvet and leather

**Author's Note:**

> Hello reader! I know you've looked at the tags and are expecting something in particular here... I hate to disappoint you, but this first chapter doesn't involve smut. Be a good girl and wait for chapter 3 and 4, would you?
> 
> I have this work set at 5 chapters for now but I may continue, especially if I see some people showing interest in the development of that story. Otherwise, it works perfectly well as a short, oneshot style story. Also, I'm just having fun with this, so don't expect perfect consistency in the tone. Anyway, hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I know this has similarities with the infamous (and incredible) Principle Decisions by motherconfessor, but (I swear!) I actually outlined this idea months ago, so it's mostly coincidental. I guess Zelda's masochist and self-destructive side is something that as a fandom is interesting to explore. Though I have to say this great fic gave me the motivation to finally write this!!

London, 1852

\- Whiskey, please.

Zelda leans over the bar, readjusting her cream-coloured silk collar, and smoothing a rebel curl of her wildfire hair. She can feel the stares on her, as always, but decides to ignore them. She doesn’t even let her eyes roam around the smoke-filled room, which seems pretty crowded tonight. She isn’t here for company, anyway; or not that kind. 

The waiter, a striking young man with dull eyes, hands her a full cristal tumble, which she accepts with a graceful nod. The thirst in her throat is strong, and she doubts alcohol will satisfy it more than superficially, yet she drinks a big gulp. 

Her eye unwillingly catches the glance of a woman at the end of the bar, who gives her a wide smile. They did have fun, the two of them, but it had been weeks now — a month, maybe? Clearly, she must have got the hint that Zelda isn’t interested in anything more. And Satan knows she must have heard of all the others like her, mere distractions which sprinkled Zelda’s days in this damp, gray city. 

“It could be worse”, the witch thinks. “I could still be stuck in Greendale”. It’s not that the redhead doesn’t like her native township, but she found, as soon as she started galloping the world, that she can’t quite breathe if she is to stay in one place for too long. Maybe, one day, she will settle down. Maybe. For now, Zelda still sees years of galloping in front of her. 

There are covens in many, many places, it turns out. When she was younger, Zelda would have never thought witchcraft was extended to such a diverse crowd, and on almost every piece of land one can find itself unto, despite the rich education she received. The church of night liked to keep its members closely knit, and so traveling the world was not particularly encouraged; even though it was not discouraged, either. Zelda knows perfectly why no one ever told her those truths she ended up finding out herself : the dark lord is not the only worshipped deity out there. She has always been a feverishly faithful worshipper, which doesn’t mean she can’t dip into others’ beliefs, get a little taste once in a while. But only when she is so away from home that she doesn’t feel any need to be Zelda Spellman anymore. She loves it and she hates it, that feeling. 

Anyhow, this is good old England, and not even close to be exotic enough for Zelda to elude herself. The familiar setting is not completely unpleasant however, and the invitation from acquaintances of a branch of the Churches of Darkness here in London saved her from an increasingly suffocating situation, far East in the Land of the Rising Sun. Not that Zelda wants to think about that now. She takes a sip of whiskey and keeps the golden liquid in her mouth a second before swallowing it, appreciating how it burns her tongue. 

The first few weeks had been all parties, wine and courting. There were a few escapades with charming warlocks, nights of carnality, rough hands and coarse lips, before Zelda craved the sweet flavor of a witch or two. There were nights of even more ferocious pleasure. No matter what she did, and whatever she was searching for, not even the smoothest of lips could fulfill it. 

She traded wine for whiskey. She stretched the nights into early morning, and the evenings were set back, starting in late afternoon. She barely ate, barely slept. She filled her bloodstream with more than whiskey, for hours on end, met bodies she barely saw the face of, often more than one at a time; it was not enough. That’s when she heard of some “dedicated services”, offered right here in the heart of the most popular meeting spot of the whole London witch community, at Mary Shelley’s tavern. 

(Oh yes, the woman is very much alive, sitting on her usual armchair in the back left corner of the room, flirting with a woman who is sitting on her lap — and Zelda knows what a flirt she is. Her mother is there too, just a bit down to the right, playing chess with Karl, who despite being caught in the game, seems to never stop babbling about how it mirrors the idea of class war.)

Beyond the many worldly pleasures provided at the tavern, there is one special treat that is only offered to regular, and discreet, clients. Zelda had witnessed a strange occurrence one night, when a man in a black coat had slipped bills across the bar, and, with a nod, left towards a corner of the room, pulled a velvet curtain and disappeared behind it. At first, she thought it banal; of course, she has seen plenty of businesses of the sort operating, at every corner of the world, and often in places like this. But none of the usual signs there; no women walking around, flirting with customers, no men sitting at tables and collecting money with knowing smirks. Hell, she herself never got approached, and with the reputation she built herself in this town, even in such a short time, chances are someone would have thought of offering their services. But this one “special” service, as Zelda eventually found out herself, is more extravagant — and extreme — than what most people, even witches and warlocks, care to indulge in. 

Almost a week after her first hint of some eerie affairs, Zelda saw it happen again. Not the same man, but the same transaction, and the same velvet curtain curled up, before the stranger vanished behind it. This time, Zelda let her curiosity get the better of her. She casually walked along the bar, as if she was heading for the lounging area at the other corner of the room, but when she reached the wall covered in deep purple velvet, at exactly the spot she had seen the man walk into, she pulled the curtain slightly to slide behind it. Much to her surprise, there was a simple brick wall. She touched it, uncertain, and by the feel of it, some unusual slickness, she immediately knew it was a glamour. 

\- Can we help you with something?

The voice of the young barman startled her. Before she could even invent some lie to cover her inquisitiveness, the man gestured for her to follow him. She did, stepping behind the bar and up to a small, private room. There, he explained; sex demons could be conjured, if one wished to try reaching “unearthly rapture”. The matter involved some risks, mostly because of the creatures’ unpredictable nature, but, according to the man’s own words, most described it as a “liberation”. 

Zelda’s heartbeat increased, as he explained to her the practical details of such a deal. A part of herself wanted to smile politely and decline. Instead, she inquired about the price. It was terribly ireasonnable. One more reason to try it. 

The first time was as unnerving as it was exalting. Zelda gasped at the sharpness of whips across her spine, somehow ashamed by the arousal that she knew could be smelled off of her. The hot hands of nameless demons slid across her skin, burning like hellfire, as they looked down to her face, smiling in their lovely glamours. After a few times, she whined without restraint as they tortured her. She let herself be toyed with, allowed herself to forget about time, and everything else, until the demons were conjured away, leaving a cold breeze behind. Leaving her, cold, alone. Guilt and shame prickled at her, like a faint shroud, after each session, even if she wouldn’t admit it. Still, she thought, for a while, that it would be enough. The hunger that had led her to this point seemed tamed. But came a point when she could barely hear the crack of the whip before it hit her. Too often she would close her eyes and get lost in the feelings, the pain, without living the fantasy; alone, completely alone in the delicious pain. And from the moment she realised that, she knew it wasn’t right. She knew she should stop. She didn’t care much for sex demons after all. 

Zelda takes another sip of whiskey, leaning on the bar as the alcohol flows through her; now in significant quantity. She feels a strange tiredness wash through her — and she knows it isn’t from a lack of sleep. She is so used to sleeping only a few hours; after all, she has been doing it for centuries. This sort of exhaustion is different, and she felt it before; in truth, she feels it most of the time. It’s the kind that nears boredom. She gets a few bills out of her bag. 

Once she slips behind the velvet curtain, the witch lets out a deep exhale. In the blink of an eye, she is blindfolded and tied up to a chair; at the mercy of whatever entity has been conjured tonight. She hears footsteps (are those stiletto heels?) and what sounds like a low chuckle, in a feminine voice. Zelda groans, squirming in her bindings as she feels both the sweet dizziness of alcohol and a growing arousal rushing through her. No need to keep a facade anymore; here she can be anything she wants, even her deepest self. But that’s the last thing she wants to be. 

\- Are we ready to start?


End file.
